


All You Gotta Do Is Say Yes

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Tougher Than the Rest 'Verse [3]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, College, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam drops out of college. Alan wants to know why.</p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	All You Gotta Do Is Say Yes

Alan finds out sooner than Sam expects.

Sam is in Alan's apartment—an extravagant, spacious arrangement that takes up an entire floor of a downtown high rise. He's sprawled across the living room couch with a magazine when the front door opens and Alan steps through it.

Four hours too early for his regular workday to have ended.

"Is it true, Sam?"

"Hi, Alan. How was work? Aren't you supposed to be in a shareholder meeting right now?" Sam sits up and tosses his magazine carelessly aside.

"I rescheduled," Alan says. He lets the door swing shut behind him and locks Sam in a hard, dark look. "Is it true?"

Sam knew this conversation was coming, but it still takes him a moment to answer.

"Yeah, it's true. I turned in the last of my paperwork with the registrar on Friday. I'm out."

"And you didn't tell me because…?"

"You want a beer?" Sam says instead of responding, standing from the couch in a smooth motion. "I could sure use one."

"Stop trying to change the subject." Alan's voice is low and soft, measured in a way that tells Sam the man is truly, intensely pissed off. "I don't want a beer. I want to know why I had to find out you dropped out of college from reading some gossip column in the evening paper."

"I'm curious about that, too," Sam deflects. "I never thought you were the gossip column type."

"Sam," says Alan. Dangerously quiet. If Sam were capable of fearing Alan, that tone would send chills along his skin. As it is he knows he's walking on thin ice, and that a couple more empty volleys will send Alan out the door.

Sam sighs and drops his gaze tiredly to the floor.

"Look, it's not that big a deal. I just got sick of all the bullshit and required classes. The stuff I want to learn, they can't teach me anyway. And the rest is either crap I already know or it's a complete waste of my time."

"Fine," Alan says, stepping farther into the room. "Those are all valid points."

Sam knows better than to let his guard down. He knows from the piercing look in Alan's eyes, and the tense line of Alan's shoulders as he shrugs out of his overcoat and tosses it carelessly over the back of a chair. Sam can feel his pulse jump, a sharp surge of nervous energy spreading beneath his skin, and he can't decide if he's itching for a fight or just desperate to get out of here and avoid this conversation at all costs.

"Now," Alan continues calmly. "Tell me the real reason."

The demand sends anger washing through Sam's veins, and okay, that decides it. Looks like he's itching for a fight after all.

Alan just saw straight through him—just called him out—and Sam feels dangerously exposed.

He hates feeling vulnerable. Almost as much as he hates talking about the things Alan's question implicitly invokes.

"That is my real reason," Sam lies.

From the way Alan's brows knit together, he doesn't buy it for a second.

"Sam, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm out. What's done is done, and there's no point trying to convince me to go back."

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything," Alan says, voice rising defensively as he steps closer to Sam. "I just want to understand!"

"Alan, seriously. Forget it. Caltech just wasn't for me, that's all."

And because he can't do this—because he can't stand to see the disappointed confusion flashing behind Alan's eyes—Sam turns away.

But Alan is close enough to touch now, and he does. He gets a hand on Sam's bicep and tugs him back around, eyes wide and expression hurt, and god, his voice when he speaks sets something harsh and unhappy loose in Sam's chest.

" _Please_ ," Alan whispers. "Just tell me why."

"Because it's not my school," Sam blurts. "It's _his_. And everyone knows it."

Alan's face falls, comprehension shadowing his eyes, and his hand falls away from Sam's arm.

He doesn't speak, and Sam is suddenly angry at him for not knowing what to say. For not knowing how to make things right.

As though Alan could ever be to blame for any of it.

"When I sit in those classrooms, it's not even me they're seeing," Sam's voice continues of its own volition. "But the worst part? The worst part is the fucking _pity_ in their eyes." Because they all know. Every one of them. They see his name on the attendance roster, and they've all read the news in the past twenty years. They all know who he is, who he's _not_.

"Sam—" Alan reaches for him again, hand closing on his shoulder, but this time Sam shrugs violently away from the touch.

"Don't. Just. Fuck. I can't keep doing this." He stares at the floor for long moments, aimless frustration simmering beneath his skin. Finally he raises his eyes, finds Alan watching him. "He's never coming back," Sam says.

Alan's face falls, instant and heartbroken, and Sam _knows_ it's fucked up that he can't even manage to feel guilty through the wall of exhausted rage clouding his thoughts. It's not Alan he should be angry at—what does he have to be pissed at Alan for? But Sam is hurting and on fire, and one week ago he walked into the registrar's office and dropped out of college—on the anniversary of his father's disappearance—because he can't keep pretending he doesn't know the truth.

"Don't say that," Alan whispers. Shattered.

"Why not?" Sam asks. Now that he's meeting Alan's eyes, Sam can't look away. He takes a step closer, and every word is a calculated attack. "He ditched. Or he's dead. But either way, he's _gone_. And he's not coming back."

"He never would have left you," Alan says, fierce and determined. "And the alternative… I won't believe it until I see a body."

Sam laughs, and the sound is dark and painful in his chest.

"Then you're not as smart as you look," he says. He turns away, but of course Alan doesn't back off.

"But why quit?" Alan demands, apparently willing to temporarily concede the point in favor of continuing his inquest. "Why not transfer to a different school? You don't have to study at Caltech, you could—"

"No. I couldn't."

Because he might escape the pity, but what then? What's the point? What use does Sam have for a Bachelor of Science degree he earns by showing up and pretending he doesn't already know everything the teachers are trying to teach him?

And if not school, then what? Encom looms like damnation every direction Sam turns, a tall, glass-paneled reminder of things Sam would rather not think about.

Fear and fury twist into painful knots beneath his skin, and he doesn't mean to lash out at Alan. But the feelings in his chest are tearing him apart, and they have to go _somewhere_ or Sam is going to throw something through the fucking window.

"Anyway, what the fuck do you care?" he says, glaring Alan's direction. "Half the time I feel like you're just biding your time until I finally lose interest and leave you in peace."

He doesn't mean it. He doesn't come _close_ to meaning it. But Alan flinches anyway, as though Sam threw a physical punch, and the instant flash of guilt in Sam's chest is quickly steamrolled by a petty surge of satisfaction.

"That's not fair," Alan says tightly.

Of course it's not.

But Sam feels his mouth twist into a harsh sneer anyway, fierce and self-deprecating, and he says, "Then why won't you fuck me?"

Alan takes an actual step back at that. His eyes go wide and his jaw drops, expression flashing stunned and hurt. Christ, this isn't the conversation they're having—even if it were, Alan deserves better than to have Sam throw it in his face like this—but the words are already out. The rage is still a twisting mess in Sam's chest, still trapped and ragged, and suddenly the room is electric with unforgiving silence.

"We've talked about that," Alan finally says.

" _You've_ talked about it," Sam counters. "I've listened obediently and let you have your way."

"Sam—"

"We've been together three years, Alan. He's been gone for almost fifteen. Are you really that scared of him? _Still_?"

"That's not what this is about," Alan says, wide-eyed and defensive.

"Whatever," Sam mutters, once again turning away. He's not really planning to _go_ anywhere, but Alan's fingers close around his arm at just the wrong moment, and Sam whirls sharply, shaking him off and growling a low, angry, "Don't touch me."

He raises his eyes and finds Alan staring at him.

Because where the fuck else would Alan be staring?

"What do you want me to do, Sam?" Alan asks, and for the first time in this entire awful conversation he doesn’t just look angry, surprised, confused. He looks _terrified_. Something loosens in Sam's chest.

"Besides fuck me?" Sam returns tiredly. He regards Alan with calmer eyes now. "I want you to get it through your head that I'm not going anywhere. Treat me like I fucking _belong_ to you once in a while instead of acting like you're on borrowed time."

The pause that falls between them is painful, and Sam already knows he's not going to like the next words out of Alan's mouth.

"Sam," Alan murmurs. "We _are_ on borrowed time. I'm too old for you, and I'm not going to live forever."

And Christ, if the silence of a moment before was painful, this one threatens to rip Sam's heart right out of his chest. For a second he can't breathe, never mind speak, and when he finally finds his voice it's rough with denial.

"Well fuck that," he says.

And because suddenly his legs feel shaky, Sam moves back towards the couch, dropping onto the nearest cushion. He slumps forward, props his elbows on his knees, and refuses to look at Alan. He suddenly can't find even a spark of his anger from a moment before. All he feels in his chest is cold.

Of course Alan follows him. He sits beside Sam— _right_ beside him—claiming the center cushion and mirroring Sam's posture. He's quiet so long Sam starts to worry they'll spend the entire afternoon and the rest of the night like this—stuck and silent and unable to even look at each other.

Finally Alan speaks, and it's not any of the questions Sam is expecting.

"It bothers you that much that we don't?" Alan asks softly.

Sam raises his eyes, and for a moment all he can do is stare.

Then he stands, chest feeling tight and wrong, and he knows he has to get out of here. He's got to screw his head on straight before he causes Alan any more undeserved hurt.

"I need to take a walk," he says. Alan blinks at him in surprise.

"Sam—"

"Look, I'm just gonna… I just need to cool off, okay?"

And Alan stands, eyes boring into Sam with every stop, but as Sam moves for the door he doesn't follow.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Alan waits at the living room window.

The sun sets and he doesn't bother turning on a light. The room is lit well enough by the ambient glow of the surrounding city, and Alan stands with his hands in his pockets, watching the skyline.

His suit coat and tie are long since discarded. His collar gapes open, though the extra space doesn't make it any easier to breathe.

He knows Sam will be back, but he doesn't know when. In the meantime there's nothing he can do but wait, and watch as the lights along the horizon wink out for the night, one by one.

His thoughts refuse to quiet. He doesn't try to make sense of the tumult.

It's four a.m. when the door finally opens, and Alan shifts his weight, turning his full and immediate attention on Sam. Sam closes the door gingerly behind him and only meets Alan's eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze.

Sam shrugs slowly out of his jacket, movements gradual and grudging, and tosses it over the arm of the couch. Alan watches silently and waits on Sam's next move.

Sam crosses to him without speaking, and with every step Alan can read guilt in the boy's slouched posture. It makes Alan's heart hurt to see Sam look like that—even worse than any of the angry barbs he knows Sam would never have thrown if he'd been thinking clearly.

When Sam reaches him, he presses close along Alan's front, tucking his face to Alan's neck and wrapping his arms around Alan's waist.

Alan swallows hard, but he doesn't move. He doesn't take his hands out of his pockets. Sam's breath is warm and uneven against Alan's throat.

"I'm sorry," Sam finally whispers. "Alan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean those things the way they came out. And I don't—… I don't need that from you. Not if you don't want to."

Alan's hands slip from his pockets now, almost of their own volition, and he reaches for Sam like it's instinct. He brushes fingers through Sam's hair, trails his other hand up Sam's arm—pulls Sam tighter against his chest and feels his pulse speed at the way Sam nuzzles closer.

The moment hangs long and silent, and for a while Alan doesn't know what to say.

When the words finally come, they surprise him.

"I want to," he hears himself murmur.

Sam jerks back immediately, as though stung by the words, and guilt glints sharp in his eyes.

"Don't," Sam says. "Don't just say that because you think—"

"I'm not," Alan cuts him off. He keeps his voice quiet but firm. He holds stubbornly on and won't let Sam back away.

Sam stares like he wants to believe it but can't.

Alan's fingers in Sam's hair tighten, urge him forward, and after a moment's nominal resistance, Sam follows the wordless command. He lets Alan kiss him—parts his lips for Alan's tongue, lets Alan claim his mouth, slow and sensual and deep. When Alan pulls back, it's with quiet reluctance, and he watches Sam's eyes carefully.

"It's _never_ been that I don't want to, Sam," Alan murmurs. "You must realize that."

Sam blinks at him, processes the statement, and Alan thinks they might finally be on the same page. It was never a question of want—of course he wanted that, god, he's human after all. Sam is a force too potent to be ignored, and Alan is far too susceptible to his allure.

But Sam is so young Alan can't wrap his head around it sometimes. Christ, he was _eighteen_ when they first started this thing. Of course Alan couldn't let himself take that last damning step. There were other reasons, but even combined they were eclipsed by the single, staggering reality that Alan is nearly thirty years Sam's senior.

But Sam isn't a teenager any longer. Young or not, Sam is a grown man now. Maybe it's past time for Alan to get that through his head.

"You mean it," Sam says cautiously.

"I do," says Alan.

"You want to fuck me?" Sam presses.

"Very much."

"And you're," Sam's voice fails him, and he pauses to swallow. He meets Alan's eyes stubbornly as he tries again. "And you're really okay with this?"

"Yes," Alan says simply.

Maybe he's made Sam wait long enough.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

It's not until they're behind the closed door of Alan's bedroom that Sam thinks to say, "We probably shouldn't do this tonight."

He's trying to be clear-headed about everything. He's trying his damnedest _not_ to make a fresh mess out of what feels like an impossible reprieve.

"Probably not," Alan agrees, but he backs Sam against the door anyway, leaning in to press a quick, deliberate kiss to Sam's mouth. Sam eases his legs apart and let's Alan's knee slip between. Alan presses in closer, thigh a maddening line of offered friction, but Sam doesn't need it—fucked up as the last twelve hours may have been, Sam has been hard since the second Alan said yes.

He can't stop his hips stuttering forward—can't play it cool or stop his body from rubbing against the unyielding pressure of Alan's thigh.

Alan's hands hold him firmly against the door. Alan's mouth finds his throat, nipping carefully—always so carefully—at the racing pulse point just beneath Sam's jaw.

"Do you have the stuff for this?" Sam gasps, hands sliding from Alan's arms to his shoulders. Sam's arms wrap around Alan's neck and he holds on for all he's worth.

"Mmm," Alan hums into Sam's skin. Sam's pretty sure it means yes.

Sam's head thumps back hard against the door as he bares his throat, arching forward against the heated line of Alan's body. He tries to speak—fails at it as Alan's fingers fumble at his fly—then takes a deep breath and give sit another shot.

"Then unless you plan on doing this right here, maybe we should—oh, _fuck_." Those are Alan's teeth on his throat, Alan's hand reaching inside Sam's jeans to cup him through his boxers, and Sam is pretty sure he had a coherent point to make but suddenly he can't find it.

Then Alan is drawing back. Alan is going still against him, like he's waiting for something, and with difficulty Sam lowers his gaze from the ceiling and meets Alan's eyes.

"You'd let me, wouldn't you," Alan murmurs. He touches Sam's face with his unoccupied hand, tracing Sam's lower lip affectionately. "Right against the door."

Sam closes his mouth to stifle a groan, and only mostly succeeds.

Alan smiles, smooth and filthy, and gives Sam's cock a deliberate squeeze.

"Next time, maybe," he says.

And god, that's it, Sam feels impatience and desire twisting together in his blood, and he can't wait another second. He reaches for the collar of Alan's shirt and drags Alan forward into the kind of kiss that says, ' _Now, god, please, now_ '. Sam's hands fumble past the shirt buttons that are already undone, reach for the next one in sequence, and when it doesn't cooperate he gives up quickly—yanks impatiently at the material and hears buttons scatter in every direction.

Alan stops kissing him, and his glasses graze Sam's cheek as Alan murmurs, "That was an expensive shirt, Sam."

"I'll buy you a new one," Sam breathes on a gasp as Alan's hand tightens on his cock. " _After_ you fuck me."

Alan withdraws far enough to maneuver, and Sam makes a low sound of protest at the loss of contact—at the sudden bereft sensation that comes with not having Alan's hands on him. But Alan isn't going far. He's taking charge, decisive and determined, and it's not long before his hands are all over Sam again. Tugging the t-shirt over Sam's head, pulling denim and boxers down Sam's hips—dropping to his knees to 'help', even though Sam could step out of his jeans and socks just fine without the extra assistance. Alan trails a hand down Sam's calf before rising to his feet again. The look in his eyes is bright and wicked.

Sam's a lot less coordinated about getting Alan out of _his_ clothes, but determination wins out and somehow the ruined shirt is gone, the pressed and tailored pants end up in a heap on the floor, and by the time Alan lets Sam urge him towards the bed there's nothing between them at all.

Alan's glasses lie discarded atop the bureau by the door. Sam didn't even bother to fold the frames when he tossed them aside.

Alan puts Sam on his back, guides him down over the mattress and pillows. He's forceful but cautious—warmth enunciates every touch, and Sam feels almost shaky under the reverence of Alan's hands.

Alan kisses him, and Sam pulls him closer, and a moment later there's a soft click. It takes Sam a moment to identify it: the sound of Alan flicking open the cap of the lube he procured from god only knows where.

Anticipation sings through Sam's blood, and he barely remembers how to breathe.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"More?" Alan asks, lips brushing Sam's jaw with the question as he presses two fingers deeper into the tight, impossible heat of Sam's body.

Sam doesn't respond to the question, of course. He's too busy responding to the physical sensation of Alan's fingers opening him up—Alan's touch twisting inside him, loosening and preparing him—and Alan feels breathless at the sight.

Sam's back arches helplessly, his mouth open on a wordless exhale. Sam's thighs press tightly in against Alan's sides, knees bent and body stuttering forward in maddening bursts of friction. Sam's arms are wrapped around Alan, desperate strength, and his fingers dig unintended bruises into Alan's shoulders.

Alan doesn't mind the bruises. He kisses Sam's throat, and lets his hand fall suddenly still.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Sam breathes now, finding words in the partial reprieve. He doesn't open his eyes. His hips twitch sharply, as though he can jumpstart Alan's hand back into motion by fucking himself farther on Alan's fingers.

"Do you want more?" Alan asks again, smile quirking at the edges of his mouth despite the insistent throb of his own straining arousal.

"God yes," Sam groans. Alan can tell it takes enormous effort to open his eyes, but they're lucid when his gaze locks with Alan's. "Please," Sam adds, breathless and low. Alan feels the rumble of Sam's voice through his own chest, pressed close as their bodies are.

"Okay," Alan murmurs, and adds a third finger.

He knows Sam's as ready as he needs to be, but he also wants this to last. He wants to watch Sam come apart like this, desperate and eager from nothing but Alan's hands and the promise of what comes next.

He's not disappointed. Sam's cock lies flushed and full against his belly, and his hips stutter forward unevenly when Alan presses all three fingers deep.

The view is intoxicating. Alan's pretty sure he could come apart himself, just from this. Just from the feel of Sam shuddering beneath him, the sound of Sam's shocky moans in his ear.

But Alan can't afford to come just from touching Sam. Not if he's going to make good on his offer.

"Are you ready?" Alan asks. He's pretty sure it has to be now, or he's not going to last.

"Yes," Sam groans, and Alan withdraws his fingers as gently as he can.

Alan slicks his cock, impatient now, and the fresh lube is cool on his skin. He takes himself in hand, shifts between Sam's legs and nudges against Sam's slick, waiting entrance.

He waits there, right on the verge of that last, implausible step.

He waits until Sam meets his eyes—until Sam is watching him intensely, Sam's legs spreading wider in undisguised anticipation—and then with deliberation born of caution, Alan pushes in.

Sam's eyes widen as the head of Alan's cock breaches him, a rough sound choking off in his throat as his body rocks forward and takes Alan even deeper. Alan tries to hold back, but it's a losing battle, and he hears his own voice gasping roughly, feels his hips falter forward and his cock press farther into Sam's body.

Sam throws his head back, exhaling sharply, and Alan falls forward over him. Alan's forehead drops to Sam's chest, and there's suddenly not enough air in the room.

For all that Alan doesn't have much deeper to go, he forces himself to still. He doesn't want to hurt Sam. He doesn't want to make Sam take it all at once, before his body has time to adjust.

When Sam shifts beneath him, thighs brushing Alan's sides and hands releasing their death grip on Alan's shoulders, it's all Alan can do to hold himself motionless. Then Sam's palms are trailing down Alan's back, along his spine, his flank, and Alan curses aloud at the effort it takes not to move.

"Come on," Sam whispers gruffly as his hands dip lower and grasp at Alan's ass. "Fuck, Alan, come _on_." And it finally computes that he's urging Alan forward—that Sam is rocking down in an effort to meet him, trying to take him deeper.

And god, that's it—that's the end of Alan's willpower—and his hips snap forward fast and sharp, slotting him indelibly in Sam's body. Sam gives a single abrupt cry as he's filled, and his fingers tighten bruisingly on Alan's skin.

Alan doesn't ask if this is okay. For once he knows better.

Now that they're here, Alan doesn't think he could hold off even if he wanted to. He draws back, pulls nearly out, and ruts forward again, instinct and need setting his pace as he immediately begins to thrust in earnest.

Sam moves beneath him— _with_ him—body meeting Alan's thrusts, matching his pace and urging him faster.

Alan's not going to last. Hell, he's not sure how he made it this long.

It takes almost more coordination than he can muster to slip a hand between their bodies and wrap his fingers around Sam's cock. Sam's own hands haven't strayed anywhere near this territory tonight, and it takes half a dozen firm strokes to coax him to climax.

Sam's voice escapes in a strangled sob, and Alan barely reacts fast enough, palm pressing over Sam's mouth to muffle a shout that might have carried dangerously clearly to the apartments above and below. Sam's back arches, taut with pleasure, and his orgasm spurts sticky and satisfied over Alan's hand.

Then, while Alan is still blinking down at him, dazed from the view and his own overwhelming need to come, Sam's hands urge Alan back into motion. He guides Alan to his previous pace, draws him deep and deeper with every thrust. Alan can feel Sam's calm eyes watching him, but he can't focus on anything beyond the sensations—Sam's skin hot and smooth beneath him, Sam's body tight around his cock, Sam's breath a warm gust in his ear as Sam whispers filthy encouragements that goad him towards the brink.

"Oh god," Alan groans as his orgasm finally takes him. "Sam," he gasps, and, "Oh fuck, _Sam_ ," burying every syllable against Sam's skin.

Sam presses kisses to Alan's throat, murmuring words Alan can't make out at first.

"Thank you," he's saying, Alan finally realizes. "Thank you."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Alan's never sleepy after sex, but Sam usually is, so he's surprised when he finds himself staring at Alan's profile instead of nodding off to sleep.

Alan's eyes are unfocused, staring somewhere past the ceiling as a pensive look darkens his features. Sam's hand on his chest seems to be going unnoticed, despite the way Alan's fingers are tracing Sam's arm in random, idle patterns.

"Are you all right?" Sam asks, despite his best efforts to keep his mouth shut.

Alan turns his head, eyes finding Sam and eyebrows rising in surprise.

"You're still awake," Alan says like it's a revelation.

"I know," says Sam. "I was shocked, too." He shifts closer so he can tuck his head against Alan's shoulder—so he doesn't have to look Alan in the eye when he asks, "Are you really okay with this?"

"You can stop asking me that," Alan says. There's tired humor in his voice. Sam curls closer against Alan's side, lets his arm slide lower to drape across Alan's stomach.

"I just." Sam swallows nervously. "I don't want to bully you into something you're not comfortable with."

"You've never bullied me into anything, Sam," Alan murmurs. "Seduced, yes. Bullied, no. And I really am okay with this." Alan presses a brief kiss to Sam's hair, and Sam feels a little silly for how warm and full that simple gesture makes his chest feel.

"Good," Sam says.

He's still not surprised when the silence that falls between them feels more unsettled than easy. He's not sure what to say to break it, and he presses his forehead to Alan's throat.

"We still need to talk," Alan finally says. "This doesn't just automatically fix everything."

"I know," says Sam. He doesn't really want to talk, though. He can practically feel Alan bracing himself. He can hear the shoring up of defenses in Alan's voice.

"What you said about me," Alan says, fingers still moving in their restless caress of Sam's arm. "About the way I treat you. Did mean that?"

Sam considers hedging. He even, for about a tenth of a second, considers lying outright. But Alan's right. They do need to talk about this. And maybe Sam is only just beginning to realize how completely—how consciously it bothers him, but that doesn't give him a right to sit and stew over it in secret when Alan is asking him flat-out.

"I know you love me, Alan," Sam says, feeling his face heat at words they don't often voice aloud. "I know you're as vested in this as I am, but. You're always so careful. It's like you never want to presume anything."

"And that bothers you?"

"It does when it feels like you're deliberately distancing yourself. It's like there's this wall of propriety holding you back. Like you care about me but you can't get it through your head that I want the whole package. That this is _it_ for me." Sam can feel himself getting agitated—or maybe it's nerves making him so shaky. He's never put any of this into words before.

He's thought it plenty of times. He knows damn well that Alan is his one and only, even if it does scare him shitless when he thinks about it too hard. Voicing the sentiment aloud is even more terrifying, and Sam's skin feels suddenly hot with the weight of confession.

"You never get jealous," Sam says. His voice is calmer now. He forces himself to breathe evenly as he lapses into silence.

It's a long time before Alan responds.

"Sam," he finally says, stilling his restless hand and closing his fingers around Sam's wrist. "I'm _always_ jealous."

There's grit in the confession—an undiluted intensity that sends tingles racing along Sam's spine.

"You could show it once in a while." He's not trying to be catty. "You don't have to keep your territorial side confined to the bedroom. You're allowed to get possessive sometimes."

"That's a little hard to do discreetly," Alan points out.

"You're a resourceful man," Sam counters. "You can work something out."

They fall to silence again. Alan doesn't make any promises. Sam doesn't need him to. It's enough that he feels like Alan has really heard him.

But there's something else gnawing at Sam. Something that ripples unhappily beneath the surface of his thoughts, making his gut clench and his breath twist unpleasantly in his chest.

He tries to keep his mouth shut. He doesn't want to talk about this. But in the end the words are more desperate to escape than Sam is to contain them, which means the battle for silence is a losing one.

"What _you_ said before," Sam finally murmurs. "About not living forever. I can't think about that. It hurts too much."

"I'm sorry," Alan whispers.

" _Don't_ ," Sam growls against Alan's throat, surprising himself with the vehemence in his voice. "Don't apologize. Just. Stop it, okay? You're not that old. We've got plenty of time. We don't have to live like we're under some huge, horrible deadline."

Alan doesn't respond immediately. Sam feels the delay twist unpleasantly beneath his skin.

"We're here, aren't we?" Sam whispers. "Why can't that be enough?"

"Maybe it can," Alan breathes. Sam feels something finally unknot in his chest.

"Okay," Sam says.

The pause that stretches out now feels expectant, and somehow Sam knows what Alan is going to say even before he opens his mouth.

"What about—"

"I don't want to talk about Dad," Sam cuts him off.

Alan falls immediately silent. He doesn't even try to claim he had some other question in mind.

"I think we should," Alan finally says.

"There's no point," Sam insists. " _I've_ got nothing good to say. _You're_ a hopeless optimist. All we'll manage to do is hurt each other and piss each other off. So let's just… not." Sam's pretty sure no matter how calm he started that conversation, he would probably tear Alan's heart out by the end of it. He doesn't want that on his conscience. He sure as hell doesn't want to do that to Alan. He's come close enough already, enough times for one day.

For a tense, horrible moment he thinks Alan might press the issue anyway. There's unpleasant purpose in the air. Sam can feel it like potential, and his skin crawls in anticipation.

He _doesn't_ want to hurt Alan. If it comes down to it—if Alan pushes him on this—Sam will be out of this bed so fast they both get whiplash. Because the alternative is opening his mouth, and look how well that went before.

But eventually Alan speaks, and it's to say, "So if you're not going back to school, what now?"

A relieved, exhausted smile spreads across Sam's face at the question, and he curls closer against Alan's side, draping even more of his weight over Alan's chest and shoulder.

"I've given that a lot of thought, actually," he murmurs, nosing at Alan's jaw. "I was thinking of taking up parachuting."

"You're saying you want to give me a heart attack for my fiftieth birthday," Alan mutters dryly.

"Would you rather I got you another tie?" Sam teases, forcing lightness back into his voice by degrees. "Because I've been thinking you need something in mauve."

"What am I going to do with you?" Alan groans.

Sam gives a low laugh, quiet but genuine, and says, "Now _that_ is a loaded question."


End file.
